


Another Way to Die

by mechanicaljewel



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asphyxiation, M/M, Movie: Skyfall (2012), References to Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:21:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanicaljewel/pseuds/mechanicaljewel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Silva survives the knife in his back at Skyfall, Bond is the only person at MI6 who thinks that he'd be better off dead. Silva agrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“007 speaking, I need an evac,” Bond said into his mobile (special MI6 issue, secured line, no doubt the source of most of Q’s “breadcrumbs”). “Myself, one civilian, two decedents.” There were, of course, more corpses on the premises, but he didn’t give a damn what happened to them. M was owed a proper burial with full governmental and military honours. And Silva needed to be nailed into a lead coffin and buried 60 feet under the bottom of the nearest large body of water.  
  
After arguing with headquarters about whether they would take him to their main Scotland facility or back to London (Bond won on his insistence on the latter), he also demanded that Gareth Mallory be there to meet them, telling them that he didn’t give a damn that Mallory was still in hospital, a shot in the shoulder never prevented him from returning to MI6 when they needed him. Headquarters stopped arguing any point with him after that.  
  
Within the hour, the sound of helicopters cut through the air for the second time that night, wholly welcome this time. He given no indication to Kincade what was going on for the past hour, and Kincade had known better than to ask, but as two black choppers touched down just outside of the chapel, his curiosity was roused almost to the breaking point. Before he could say anything however, Bond looked over at him and said simply “In due time...” and Kincade kept his mouth shut.  
  
A medical team emerged from one chopper with two stretchers. A formality, of course, until M and Silva were officially declared dead, which would happen en route. Bond watched intently as M was laid out on her stretcher, and he held the medical team back a few moments to hold her hand one last time. Silva had already been carted off, and Bond finally allowed himself to let go. He slid one arm across Kincade’s shoulders and leaned into him, not quite sobbing, but drawing huge gasping breaths all the same. After another member of the medical team draped a rough blanket around Bond’s shoulders saying something about hypothermia, Kincade took the lead in walking Bond to the other helicopter.

Once on board, Bond sat as close to Kincade as he could, taking the comfort he had refused at his own parents’ death. Kincade patted Bond’s head down to his nearest shoulder, and said “She was a fine woman, lad. She was lucky to have you right up to the end.” Bond said nothing and his breathing remained unchanged, but small tears began to leak silently from his eyes.

They had been in the air for a half hour before Bond had gathered himself back together to some degree of professionalism. “Where in London are we going?” he asked, finally realizing that the Churchill bunkers were really no place to bring the body of one of MI6’s greatest leaders, not to mention the security risk Kincade would be perceived to pose at first.

The pilot replied, “St. Stephen’s hospital. It’s where Mallory is recovering, not to mention direct access to a coroner, a doctor to look you over, and well, there aren’t too many other places we could bring a civilian with no clearance.”

Kincade snorted. “James, I still don’t know what you do, and hope you don’t have to kill me after you tell me. Because then I’d rather not know.” Bond smiled in spite of himself.

“I’d rather get you a VC,” Bond replied. “I think this qualifies for one. Or at least a George Cross.”

“‘At least’, he says!” Kincade laughed, and for the first time all day, Bond was keen to see his life go on.

~~~

He should have known that feeling would be short-lived. He had just stepped out of his chopper on to the hospital roof when he noticed there were far too many technicians and nurses waiting to meet them. And there was a rush to unload Silva from his chopper and get him inside.  
  
“Son of a bitch,” Bond growled and ran for the door Silva’s stretcher had just rolled through. He almost made it, until his gut collided with Mallory’s outstretched good arm.  Clutching his stomach and gasping as he straightened up, he turned on Mallory. “Goddammit Mallory, what the bloody hell are you doing? Get out of my way and let me finish my job!”  
  
“No, 007, I can’t allow you to murder a man in the Crown’s custody,” Mallory replied, grasping Bond’s upper arm to hold him in place.  
  
“He killed M,” Bond spat. “Don’t think I won’t break your other arm if you persist in trying to stop me.”  
  
“007, you know how this works. He killed the former M,” Mallory said steadily. “As of about an hour ago, I am M. And I’m telling you your job re: Raoul Silva is now deemed complete. Until further notice, any further violence perpetrated by you upon his person will be considered a rogue action and you will face court martial.”  
  
Bond wrenched his arm away and said, “See you in court, then,” as he turned to the roof door.  
  
“James,” Mallory said with a new gentleness. “Enough. She wouldn’t want you to sacrifice your career on him.”  
  
Bond stopped and turned around to face Mallory again. “And what are you going to do with him? You can’t contain him. Q’s marvellous security system couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t stop him. Cyanide and a fucking knife in his back haven’t stopped him. Where do you see this ending?”  
  
“It doesn’t end with him being strangled in his hospital bed,” Mallory shot back. “Plans of what to do with Silva are being made as we speak. And while not of official concern to you, I will personally keep you updated on his status. Now go inside with Nurse Pritchett here,” he said, gesturing towards a woman now standing next to the roof door, “and let the doctors have a look at you. You absolutely will not be able to have your revenge if you lose your fingers to frostbite or die of pneumonia next week,” he finished wryly.  
  
Defeated, Bond allowed himself to be escorted down to the closed ward where all the government officials injured in Silva’s attack on M’s hearing were recuperating. He cursed Silva, cursed Mallory, cursed himself for not making sure the job was done back in the chapel.

~~~

After being stitched up and soaked in a warm bath, Bond was given a clean bill of health, but was told he was being kept for “further observation”. In other words, Mallory wanted to keep an eye on him. He had been debriefed and vouched for Kincade’s trustworthiness (and listed all the medals he believed Kincade deserved) by the time he saw his new boss again.

“His condition has stabilised,” Mallory informed him. “He’s still unconscious, but he is expected to recover.”

“Always start with the good news, don’t you?” Bond replied dryly.

Mallory ignored the comment. “It’s been decided that after he regains consciousness and has been debriefed that he will remain in MI6 custody indefinitely. He has already been declared legally dead.”

“Have you changed your mind on making that an actual reality?” Bond spat.

“No, 007.” Mallory sighed. “I know this is the last thing you want to hear, but you are making this too personal.”

“Too personal?  For fuck’s sake Mallory, her body isn’t even cold yet--”

“And not a single member of the NATO Military Committee will give a damn about that. They are far more concerned about the five operatives of theirs who are dead. They will want to know exactly how our security was breached and how to prevent it from happening again. They will want to be assured that the only person who could leak the remaining names is unable to. Right now, MI6 looks like it has as much security and advanced technology as a telegraph office, every maniac with a computer has been trying to hack us ever since the list leaked.” Mallory’s voice tightened with his conviction, “Bond, there is only one person in the world who has all the information we need. The security of the free world depends on us even trying to get it from him. Is your revenge, is your grief, worth that much?”

“Apparently not,” Bond ended the conversation.


	2. Chapter 2

More news came in drips and drabs throughout the week. Silva regained consciousness, and after being told where he was, apparently rolled over and cried for 24 hours straight. He had been put on suicide watch. Bond took grim satisfaction in knowing that at least Silva agreed with him on what should be done.

A few days later, Mallory went to debrief him. Silva asked the first question: he wanted to know where Bond was. When Mallory informed him that Bond was not permitted contact with him, he told Mallory to get out and stared at him until he did-- two hours later.

The next day, Mallory tried again. It was a farce of a debriefing. Mallory simply recited the facts as Bond and Kincade had told them, from Bond’s arrival at Skyfall until M’s death, inviting Silva to correct or add any further information. Silva again stared at Mallory in silence until he went away. He had to be revived that night after tearing open the vein in his elbow with its own IV needle. Bond really wished he could have seen that.

He was kept heavily sedated and left in restraints for the next two days. Mallory informed Bond that Silva would be relocated to a specially designed cell on the top floor-- away from sewers and tunnels-- of MI6’s interim headquarters. It would be guarded round the clock by a security by two guards and one suicide watch specialist at a time. It was sealed with good old-fashioned thick steel bolted doors, walls of cinder block, wired for lighting only on its own circuit (and he would not even have access to the lightswitch; since his suicide attempt, lights were left on at all times). He would have access to nothing that transmitted or received a signal, or had any integrated circuits or even transistors-- anything he might be able to crack apart and build his own equipment with. Bond, of course, would not be allowed on the top floor at all. Later, as he stood on the roof gazing across London, he fantasized about Silva breaking himself out and flinging himself down to the pavement.

Once moved into MI6’s new headquarters, Silva was visited by a steady stream of psychiatrists and therapists. The ones he said nothing to were the lucky ones. One man had quit MI6 altogether after only two visits with Silva. Bond had started avoiding his office after hearing Silva’s manic laughter through the vent above his desk. However, he tucked away that information for later, for after he got tired of waiting for Silva to kill himself.

About two weeks after Silva had been moved in, it was decided that a member of Q-branch should take lessons from him. It was a roundabout way of collecting the information they wanted, but everyone agreed that indirect was probably the best approach with Silva. To everyone’s amazement, Silva agreed immediately to teach MI6 everything he knew-- but only if his pupil was 007’s quartermaster.

Q, to Bond’s annoyance, was delighted. He saw it as the opportunity of a lifetime, to study at the feet of the only coder who had ever bested him. He complained more about not being allowed to bring in a laptop with him than he did about the prospect of being locked into the room of a murdering psychopathic terrorist for a few hours everyday (which he never seemed to even consider).

Q was warned to be vigilant about spotting false, useless, or harmful information, and was only allowed to test his new coding knowledge on a specially built isolated network, consisting of one computer console with no access to the Internet or MI6’s intranet, one server, and a printer so he could show Silva what he had practiced. Once Bond had come across Q leaving his console’s room with a sheaf of papers and commented bitterly, "Don't want to hand in your homework late. Teacher gets bomb-happy if anyone disrupts his plans."

Bond was furious to find out the next day that Q had suggested that one of the Q-branch munitions team be permitted to take lessons from Silva as well. Indeed, Silva had become something of a hero to Q-branch. You couldn't trust nerds, Bond mused over that evening's martini. At the end of the day their loyalties lie squarely towards advancement of their field, no matter who it came from. And deep down they all believed that they worked for the Man on their own terms, but really, they could go out and steal an island and hold the world hostage whenever they wanted. Silva had lived out their dream and they paid little mind to the cost.

The worst part of the 'Professor Silva' scheme, Bond discovered later, was that it seemed to be improving his mental health. Commiserating with other would-be mad geniuses put him in his element, and his suicide watch was gradually scaled back. Though Bond was unsure of the specifics, he noted the first week that went by where he didn't come across a crying psychiatrist. And now Silva had allies, which he knew how to use. Bond warned Mallory against the risks of allowing him such unfettered access to "potential minions" but Mallory waved him off.

"His sessions with Q are thoroughly monitored, and he has given us more information in a month than we expected to get in a year. Q's loyalty is sound. It's not treason to like someone you're working with." Mallory fixed Bond with an exasperated look. "Bond, you know he's not the only old enemy to ever come work for us."

"How many of those old enemies killed the head of MI6 before defecting?"

"How many of them used to be MI6, do you think? He was loyal once, and he only really wanted to hurt her, not Britain nor our allies. Now that she's gone, is it so unlikely he'd be willing to come back?" 

"So she was just standing in the way of us re-recruiting the maniac whose only crime was wanting her dead in the first place!"

"Bond, that is not what I meant and you know it! I am making the best of an utter disaster. Shockingly, the worse the situation, the less tasteful the solution tends to be. You of all people should know that."

"How would you react if she had recruited one of your IRA captors?"

"Bond, I hired their leader as an anti-terror consultant two weeks ago!" Mallory yelled. "I have been so very patient with you over the entire Silva situation. I've kept you informed about what we're doing with him and tried to get you to understand why. But I am in charge here, and if you continue to challenge me over your own personal vendetta, I will be forced to put you on leave at the very least."

Bond swallowed his retort and turned to leave. As he reached the door, Mallory added, "He keeps asking about you, you know. He would like to see you."

"Well, isn't it just too bad I'm not allowed up there," Bond spat.

"You are now, if you think you can be reasonably civil to him."

"Like I said, I'm not allowed up there."


	3. Chapter 3

“He keeps asking after you,” Q also told him one day, a few weeks after his ‘lessons’ with Silva had started. “He wishes you would visit. He was thrilled when Mallory told him you were allowed to now.”  
  
“I know,” Bond replied darkly.  
  
“Aren’t you even slightly curious what he wants?”  
  
Bond snorted. “No doubt the same things he wanted the first time we met. Either to get me to join whatever next rampage he’s planning, to kill me, or to have his way with me.” (Q choked on his tea.) “Very possibly all three.”  
  
“007, I think you left something out of your report on him, because I knew those first two but...” Q trailed off for dramatic effect.  
  
Bond shook his head, “I was being facetious. He did come on to me, but I think he was just trying to intimidate me or throw me off or something.”  
  
“And did he?”  
  
Bond glared at him, “Did I or did I not take him into custody on his island?”  
  
“Calm down, there's no need to fly into a gay panic," Q held up his hands in mock surrender.

"I once served on a submarine for almost a year, where everyone is surreptitiously asked or asking for a handjob at least once a week. I do not have 'gay panic’, and I am certainly not one to be thrown by some madman stroking my thighs."

"That twinkle in his eye he gets whenever he talks about you makes a lot of sense now," Q mused.

~~~

The next week, on one of the rare occasions Bond was actually in his office, Q let himself in and flopped down into the chair across from his desk, “He said of the options you listed, having his way with you was the only one still on his mind,”  
  
“I’m sure it is,” Bond replied.   
  
“Well actually, his exact words were that ‘I should be so lucky to be afforded the opportunity to make love to the Don Juan of the 21st century before I die.’”  
  
“How poetic.”  
  
“It wasn’t sarcastic at all,” Q said, barely contained amusement spreading across his face.  
  
Bond slapped a hand on his desk. “Q, unless he has sent you to woo me on his behalf, I fail to see the purpose of this conversation. And not even then,” he added quickly after Q smirked and raised his eyebrows.  
  
However, nothing could stop Q from gossiping with the rest of his department, and after a few weeks of being followed by whispers and innuendoes, and fake mash notes appearing at his desk and in his email, Bond finally decided that one visit was in order. He took the lift to the top floor and wound through the corridor to Silva's holding chamber. The place was much as Mallory had described, though he hadn't mentioned the antechamber set-up. The guards sat outside one heavy, ominous-looking door, with a half-wall behind them going the length of Silva's room, which he could see through the thick shatterproof glass that went from the top of the half-wall to the ceiling. There was a small office just adjacent to the cell for the security officers.

Silva's room, set about a meter deeper from the first wall, was sealed with what looked like an old bank vault door, and his front wall was all thick glass, from floor to ceiling. There was also a small rotating chamber installed at about waist height, for his meals, no doubt, and Q's homework. In the middle if the wall, two circles of small holes were drilled through the glass-- speaking holes, at both standing and seated height. Beyond he noted a frosted glass closet in one corner (which he discerned to be a lavatory and possibly also a shower), a simple army cot with a bedside table in the other corner, and a larger table with a chair and a stack of what looked like magazines, plus some notebooks and pencils.

"I want to talk to him," Bond said shortly to the guards (only two now, the suicide watch not being round the clock anymore). He tried not to notice that Silva had been watching him from where he was seated on the edge of his cot the minute he hove into view, his unnerving wild smile plastered across his face. Bond was let into the antechamber and waited until the door was shut before crossing over to the speaking holes.

Without preamble, he said, “Stop telling Q you want to fuck me. It is never going to happen and he is being an insufferable little shit about it.”  
  
Slowly, Silva began chuckling, which soon crescendoed into a loud, unnerving cackle. “So Geoffrey has been gossiping? Naughty boy,” Silva eventually said, brushing the tears of mirth from his eyes. It took Bond a few moments to realize that “Geoffrey” must be Q’s real name. “Oh James, I was simply responding to your guesses of what I wanted from you. And James--” Silva rose slowly and sauntered over to the glass dividing them and placed his palm against it facing Bond, “-- it is a genuine fantasy of mine, no matter how much it distresses you to know that. But it is not the whole of the fantasy.”  
  
“I don’t want to hear this, Silva,” Bond snapped.  
  
“I think you do,” Silva lifted his gaze and looked Bond directly in the eye. “I want you to kill me. And ideally, you would fuck me before you kill me.”  
  
Bond was struck dumb for a few moments as he started to process this escalation of the discourse, though he felt renewed satisfaction that Silva was just as suicidal as ever. “Well, could you start telling Q more about how you want me to kill you so he and the rest of Q-branch will stop taunting me like a bunch of schoolboys about my place in your sexual imagination?”  
  
Silva scoffed. “And have them increase my suicide watch again? It would be impossible to have any alone time.”  
  
“Well, even if Mallory eventually sees sense, it’s not going to be anything under 00 jurisdiction. It’ll be something quiet like a lethal injection. Not you and me fighting a pitched battle on the moors, and certainly nothing going on in that cot of yours.”  
  
“James, James, James,” Silva said condescendingly. “You know very well it must be you. You must be the last rat standing again. She would certainly want it that way.”  
  
“No she wouldn’t,” James spat in defense of her memory. “She wanted you to stand trial in a civilized way and go to prison for your crimes.”  
  
“Ah, but civilized trials and wasting away serving out a life sentence-- that is not the way of our kind, is it James?  Our deaths are nasty, messy, brutish things, and there is no one better than you to bring it to me. And what better way than to do it in bed, after you have taken me, violently dominated me, proven your superiority in every way? Asphyxiation would be the logical choice from that point. Imagine it, James...” Even as Bond’s mind began to rage _don’t want to hear it tell him to shut up_ , he stayed silent, his baser desires (for blood? for sex? for both?) winning out.  
  
“Imagine you behind me, on top of me, pounding me into the mattress, fucking my arse raw, and you’ve got some rope looped around my neck. And as you fuck me harder and faster, both of us about to come, you pull the ends-- like horse reins, James, while you’re riding me-- tighter and tighter until I’m blacking out, cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot see, and right before I die, I come so hard and in the spasms of my climax and my death throes, you find your release, shooting the biggest load you have ever made deep into my arse, and it overflows out of my arse and you can keep fucking my body until the jizz starts congealing and you almost get stuck inside of me.”

Silva was now breathing heavily, steaming up the glass between them; his eyes were dark, his pupils dilated wider than should even be possible, and his erection plainly visible through the thin jumpsuit. He placed both palms up against the glass now, in front of Bond’s shoulders, trying to grasp them through the glass. “That’s how I want to die. I want to die with you conquering me. Tell me that’s not a good way to die--tell me you wouldn’t enjoy killing me that way.”

Bond snorted. “You are absolutely mental,” he replied before turning abruptly and brisking out the door and passed the guards who were waiting outside for their conversation to be finished without a clue what had just transpired. He took a sharp turn into the first men’s room he came to, locked himself in the first stall, pulled down his trousers, and started wanking furiously. He came in under a minute.


	4. Chapter 4

About a week later, in the dead of night at MI6 headquarters, a guard had been incapacitated by a tranquilizer dart, locks opened with his keys, and a tall, dark figure slunk into Raoul Silva’s holding chamber. Silva, unnerving in everything he did, was sleeping face up, board straight and flat, hands laced over his heart. Preparing for death? Bond wondered as he clasped a leather-gloved hand over his mouth before rapidly, and not at all gently, flipping Silva over and climbing on top of him in one fluid movement.

Silva let out a muffled cry as he awoke and instinctively bit down on the nearest finger. Bond winced as Silva’s incisors (real and otherwise) bit through the thick leather and latched onto his finger. He lowered his head down to Silva’s ear and whispered, “It’s just the Angel of Death come for you.” And to clear up any other confusion Silva might have, Bond drove his hips into Silva’s arse, rubbing his already half-hard cock against him. Silva’s cries turned into seductive moans as he finally grasped what was going on. He began to squirm, obviously trying to wriggle out of his jumpsuit, but Bond pressed a knee against his lower back. Silva got the message, stopped moving and settled into excited whimpers.

Bond shifted his knee so that he was now straddling Silva’s thighs and sat back on his heels. He removed his gloves and tossed them off the side of the bed. His eyes adjusted to the room, cast in an eerie blue from an LED night light on the other side of the room. He looked down at Silva trapped beneath him. Silva was trembling in what Bond assumed was anticipation, though possibly fear-- was Silva having second thoughts? Oh well, there was no safeword. Silva had quite literally asked for this and he was going to get it.

Bond buried his hands in Silva’s bleach-blond hair, dragging his nails up the sides of his scalp to the back, tugging the hair as he went, pulling his head off the pillow and back uncomfortably far. Silva was groaning in pain, though seemed no less thrilled to be feeling that pain. Bond moved one hand down from Silva’s scalp and scraped his fingernails across the exposed throat, returning to scratch a circle around the Adam’s apple. Bond bent over to murmur into Silva’s ear, “I’m going to crush your throat. I'm going to choke your very soul from your body, and I am going to ravage and defile your body, fuck you raw and bloody, fuck your corpse until I'm done, you filthy pervert, you murdering bastard."

Silva began drawing sharp, shallow breaths. "Please," he gasped. "Please."

"Shut up," Bond growled, and he dug his fingers into the flesh around Silva's windpipe--just a preview of course. Silva would get his wish of being well and truly fucked by James Bond before he was strangled. Bond removed the hand from Silva's hair and brought it down to unzip Silva's jumpsuit down to his crotch. He wore no underpants. Bond grabbed his balls and squeezed.

Silva screamed as best he could through Bond's grip on his throat. "Go on," Bond whispered harshly in his ear. "No one can hear you. You are mine now, all mine to finish the job I started." Bond released his grip on Silva's balls and began roughly pumping his cock. "And you think you're going to enjoy it?"

Silva moaned in unmistakable pleasure, rapidly growing hard under Bond's calloused fingers. Bond let go of both his cock and throat and slammed him facedown on the bed. "Filthy bitch," Bond growled.

He roughly pulled the jumpsuit off of Silva's shoulders and down his back until it bunched at his knees and his arse lay invitingly exposed. Almost without thinking, Bond whipped off his belt and cracked it across the fleshy cheeks. Silva cried in both pain and delight. Bond grew angry at how much Silva was enjoying this, and he brought the belt down harder, again and again until he was sure the sobs and tears were genuine. Silva was now trembling again, and Bond contented himself to believe it was out of fear.

Bond threw the belt off the side of the bed. He pulled off the black turtleneck he was wearing, revealing his true weapon of choice for the night: the grey scarf he had found and worn at Skyfall. He unwrapped it from his own neck and pulled back Silva's head by his hair again. Shoving the scarf under his nose, Bond growled "Smell the smoke, the exhaust? This scarf is all that remains of my home. I was wearing it when you destroyed it, when I threw that knife in your back, when She died in my arms. And now I'm going to kill you with it."

Bond then drew it back, and taking one end in each hand, pulled it to full length. He lay the middle of the scarf across the back of Silva's neck. "Lift your head," he barked at Silva, who obeyed with audible whimpers. Bond crossed the scarf in front of his face, drew it down to his neck and pulled it tight--just enough to hurt but not cause any damage yet. He lay the ends on Silva's back, which rose and fell quickly and sharply as Silva worked for his breath.

Bond now turned his attention to Silva's arse. He slid an arm under Silva's hips and pulled back roughly, folding his knees up to his torso, his arse now sticking up in the air. Bond's chest hairs brushed against it as he reached over and around to pull Silva's knees apart, and Silva grunted in approval.

"God, this is making you hard," Bond noted. "Disgusting." He reached between Silva's thighs, grabbed his cock, and jerked it back, digging his thumbnail down the vein from root to tip. Silva gave a sharp cry that was certainly of pain, but he still grew harder in Bond’s grasp. Bond let go and huffed. No more fucking around, time to do what he came here to do.

He pushed down his trousers just enough to pull his cock out, plenty hard himself (necessary to do the job, he told himself) and reached into his pocket for a small tube of lube. He meant what he said about wanting to fuck Silva bloody, but he wasn’t willing to rub his own cock raw just to do it, so he slathered on thin layer and tossed the tube off the bed. Just enough to make his entrance smooth, not enough to make it remotely pleasant for Silva.

He positioned himself and pressed the blunt tip of his cock against Silva’s arsehole. Silva suddenly stilled-- he stopped breathing and every muscle in his body appeared to be drawn tight and tense. “You know what’s coming now, don’t you, fucking bastard,” Bond snarled and threw all of his weight into his hips, driving his cock deep into Silva’s arse, which enveloped him in an almost impossibly tight, velvety heat. Silva howled, and for once Bond didn’t care if it was pleasure or pain, because Silva, damn him, had been right: this was a great way to kill someone.

Very soon he was pounding a rough rhythm into Silva’s arse, the cot springs squealing at the strain, and Silva was groaning into his pillow, his hands wrapped in the pillowcase from gripping and twisting it so hard. With the jolts of lightning shooting from his cock and up his spine, Bond knew he had less than two minutes to go before he came. He let go of his grip on Silva’s hips and with the next thrust forward, he reached up to Silva’s shoulders and grabbed both ends of the scarf.

Bond wrapped each end around each hand, and with one sharp tug, pulled out all the slack that had come with their vigorous exertions, cutting off Silva’s moans abruptly. He then paused, wrapping the extra length of the scarf around his hands some more and lifting Silva off his pillow by his neck. The best stranglings were accomplished by has much of the victim’s own weight as possible, so Bond did his best to keep Silva’s upper body weight centered around his neck.

Now, the part he was most looking forward to. Bond began rocking his hips again, sliding in and out of Silva’s now thoroughly abused hole, and soon the heat in his cock began to build. He pulled the scarf tighter and tighter, listening with unadulterated glee at the wet choking sounds Silva was making. Bond was now slamming into Silva’s arse harder and harder, faster and faster, yes he was getting off to the sound of a man being strangled, he just needed to yank this scarf one more time, as tight as it would go, and yes! there it was, Silva was coming, his arse was clenching and his whole body was spasming as the oxygen drained from his brain, and fuck yes! Bond’s balls drew up tight before shooting their load deep into Silva’s arse. Bond continued to fuck Silva almost-drunkenly as his orgasm ebbed slowly away, before collapsing entirely.

Bond lay panting on top of Silva’s body. There. It was done. In a few moments he would leave and let his morning shift guard find him when they brought his breakfast. He’d have to roll Silva over so as not to draw attention to his ravaged arsehole. Hopefully everyone would feel too embarrassed to inspect further, the cause of death would be self-evident: autoerotic asphyxiation. There may be some question of where the scarf came from-- as a man on suicide watch he wasn’t supposed to have anything he could choke himself with--but Bond had to leave it or an even greater mystery behind. It was his last remaining piece of Skyfall. It was fitting to have it carted away with Silva’s body.

Finally, Bond hit that window of post-orgasmic recovery where one has regained the energy sapped by the immediate physical exertion, but before the fatigue caused by the orgasm itself set in. Time to get going now or else he would fall asleep there, opening up a whole other can of worms. He climbed off the cot, flipped Silva over and pulled the man’s sleeves back on. He was pulling on his own clothes when he heard a deep gasp coming from the direction of the cot. Bond’s blood went cold and he turned around to see Silva clawing at the tightened scarf until he got it loose enough to cough. As soon as the fit was over, he turned his head and focused his gaze on Bond.

“It didn’t work,” Silva said raspily. Bond tried to tell himself it was all from being choked, but there were distinct notes of the start of a crying jag. “You cannot poison me, you cannot stab me, you cannot strangle me-- how am I supposed to die?” he demanded of no one in particular as the tears started to slide down his cheeks.

Bond moved next to the cot. Shit, now what was he supposed to do? “What can I say? It happens to lots of guys,” he deadpanned before sitting back down on the bed. “I must not have done it right. I’ve never killed anyone this way before, I must not have pulled tight enough. Or maybe the loop slipped to a bad position. I don’t know.” He exhaled sharply and ran his hand through his bristly hair. Looking down at Silva, he noticed how pathetic this maniac could look. Taking pity, he bent down and kissed Silva’s dry lips. “I’ll come back tomorrow. We can try again tomorrow, okay?”

Silva sniffed and nodded, and Bond unwrapped the scarf from his throat. “Keep this, it’s my promise that I’ll come back. Hide it so they don’t find it and take it.” Silva folded the scarf and stuffed it into his pillowcase. Bond went through the heavy vault door he had left open and tried not to hear Silva’s soft sobs as he hauled it shut.

 ~ ~ ~

The next night, Bond slipped into Silva’s room and found him awake, idly rubbing the scarf over his face. When he registered Bond’s presence, he sat up and watched silently as Bond undressed and lay his clothes neatly on the chair. Once naked, Bond strode over to the cot and climbed on top of Silva, straddling his hips. They regarded each other silently for a few moments before Bond’s arm shot out and struck Silva in the chest, slamming him down onto the mattress. And as he flipped Silva onto his stomach, Bond heard him moan, “Conquer me, James.”

Bond got rock hard and sank his teeth into the back of Silva’s neck.

But a half hour later, he was lying wrung out next to a still-breathing Silva. Silva was rubbing the angry red stripes that covered his neck from the scarf’s chafing and digging into his flesh. He looked very pissed off.

“Look, I could just strangle you with my hands right now. I could even break your neck-- it’s hard to get that wrong,” Bond offered.

Silva rubbed his neck some more, contemplating. “No,” he finally answered, not looking at Bond, “Not yet. Come back tomorrow. I want to die with your cock in my arse, and with this scarf from your home.”

“You just added that bit about the scarf,” Bond pointed out.

“You shouldn’t have brought it or told me what it was. Now it’s important to me.”

“You and your bloody theatrics,” Bond sighed. He was annoyed. Silva was supposed to be dead by now, and on top of that he really wanted a cigarette.

“I am not the one who brought the scarf in the first place,” Silva retorted.

“Fine,” Bond said. He threw his legs over the side of the cot. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” He padded over to the chair and dressed in silence. As he left, Silva was rubbing his face with the scarf again. Looking back from the doorway, he and Silva locked eyes one more time. Silva brought the scarf to his nose and breathed deep.

~ ~ ~

After the third unsuccessful night (he had even tied a hard, thick knot in the scarf to press against Silva's windpipe, to no avail), Q came by to see Bond.

“My session with Silva was almost cancelled today,” he informed him.

“I’ll alert the press,” Bond replied. He was in a sour mood. Not being able to kill someone in the field is a rare annoyance, but not being able to kill a man in his bed for three nights in a row where he has invited you to do just that is a severe blow to one’s professional pride. As he was showering last night, his mind tried to comfort him with the idea that at least the sex was fantastic, if unconventional for him. He knocked back three shots of whiskey in a row afterward to scrub that thought from his head.

“Apparently,” Q continued, amusement growing in his voice. “This was the third morning in a row where his sheets have been utterly defiled. They think he’s trying to cause trouble the only way he can with his limited means.”

Bond paused. He could not give any indication that he knew what Q was talking about. “I don’t care if he can’t make it to his bloody toilet on time, and I can’t imagine why you think I do.”

“That’s not what has been defiling his sheets,” Q replied with an insufferable playfulness.

“Don’t care,” Bond said, hoping to cut this conversation off before it got really uncomfortable.

“Our Mr. Silva seems to be having entirely too much trouble keeping his hands off of himself, or else has be having some incredibly stimulating dreams.” Q smirked. “Either way, I think I know who figures into them.”

“And this is the man you’re taking lessons from. At what point after ‘How to blow up MI6 headquarters’ does he teach you ‘How to wank in an MI6 prison bed’?” Bond hoped turning it on Q would get him to give it up, but to no avail.

“I’m just saying, you would probably be doing everyone a favor if you went down there now and help him ease all of his, ah, tension. Don’t worry, they can’t get anyone to agree to keep an extra watch to stop him, you’ll have plenty of privacy.” Q dodged the letter opener Bond flung at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know how my brain came up with this.


	5. Chapter 5

The morning after the fifth failed attempt (they had tried it from the front this time, Silva's ankles on his shoulders, a simple over-and-under tie with Bond pulling and tightening as he thrust), he awoke to his MI6 phone ringing.  It was Mallory. Hopefully with an assignment so he could take a break from sneaking about at night and utterly failing to get his job done.  
  
“007,” he answered.  
  
“No you are not,” Mallory replied furiously. “You are suspended indefinitely and must report immediately to HQ to attend a hearing.”  
  
Bond’s heart sank into his stomach. “What is this about?” he replied, trying to keep his voice even.  
  
“Don’t, Bond,” Mallory growled. “Don’t try to pretend you don’t know. There is a car waiting for you outside your flat. I will set the remaining 00 division on you if you try to run for it. And I will let him help.” He hung up.  
  
Bond dropped the phone on to his bed. Cursing himself, he got up and went to his closet. Of course, it was only a matter of time before something got discovered. And really, there was nothing he could say to make it seem better.  Even the full honest truth sounded horrible and certainly well outside even his considerable latitude. He would not be coming home tonight, or ever again.  At the very least he could go out looking good, and he reached for his best suit.

~~~

Upon arriving at MI6, he was escorted to Mallory’s office. He avoided making eye contact with Eve and tried not to wonder what she knew. Once inside, he was brought past five people seated in row with their backs to the door. They all turned to watch him as he was brought to the single empty chair in front of Mallory’s desk facing them. In addition to Mallory, there were four other higher-ups from various parts of MI6 and the government-- Bond knew their faces but had never bothered to learn their names. He was seated, and scanning the five faces in front of him, he saw stone-cold disgust from four of them, and from Mallory, barely contained rage.    
  
“Mr. Bond,” he began, “I assume you know what this hearing is about.”  
  
“I have a fairly good idea,” he replied.  
  
Mallory paused, staring daggers at him, then launched into his opening remarks. “For the past five mornings, MI6 detainee Raoul Silva has been found in his bed covered in semen. Without any indications to believe otherwise, his state was considered to be self-inflicted, intentionally or unintentionally. This morning, however, Mr. Silva was found sobbing in his bed, and when questioned, he responded, quote, ‘It’s been five days, he’s come five times, why am I not dead yet?’. He would not respond to any further questions, though he did repeat, ‘Why am I not dead yet?’ several times. He is currently sequestered with an MI6 psychiatrist, and as of five minutes ago has said nothing further. 

“We have reviewed the past five nights of security footage from Mr. Silva’s holding chamber and run DNA tests on the fluids found on his sheets.” He took a deep breath. “Mr. Bond, you were observed on the security footage every night, and the tests revealed your DNA profile to be a perfect match. Do you have any evidence to controvert our findings?”

“No,” Bond replied.

In a firm, barely restrained voice, Mallory asked, “So you do not deny that for five nights in a row, you have entered a closed section of MI6 headquarters, unauthorized, and proceeded to violently rape and choke an MI6 detainee? A suicidal detainee?”

Bond chose his next words carefully. “I would object to the characterization of what occurred as rape, sir.”

A palpable frisson of outrage ran through the panel. “Mr. Bond,” Mallory said, his voice escalating with every syllable. “Do you really expect us to believe that all such contact between yourself and Mr. Silva, which has left Mr. Silva crying insensibly and wishing he were dead, was entirely consensual?”

“Since I assume the security footage does not include audio, no I don’t expect you to believe me,” Bond replied stoically. “Why don’t you bring him in and ask him?”

The woman Bond recognized as the head of MI6 psychiatric services spoke up. “I cannot possibly condone expecting a victim of sexual assault to give his initial testimony in the presence of his alleged attacker. The risk of intimidation--”

“Intimidation?” Bond scoffed. “The man was once tortured by the Chinese for five months without giving up a shred of information. You think being in the same room as me, even if I was the monster you all believe me to be, would prevent him from telling you whatever he wanted to? I assume you’ve seen his scars? His file has all the pictures.”

The psychiatrist looked like she wanted to throw him into the Thames. “It is best for the victim to speak up about his trauma on his own terms.”

“He has been here for two months, on suicide watch, and he’s refused to talk to any of your people about anything. What are you expecting to change about that?” Bond retorted.

A slight man from the legal department at the end of the row on Bond’s left cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose we could just ask Mr. Silva if he wants to come? I mean, if he doesn’t want to, that’ll be the end of that.”

Mallory contemplated this, then said to the psychiatrist, “Dr. Brand, would you please go to your department and ask Mr. Silva if he would like to be a part of these proceedings?” She opened her mouth to protest, but apparently thought better of it and strode out of the room.

For fifteen minutes, the panel sat in silence and Bond contemplated the possibility that Silva would not tell the truth--it would certainly be easier on him to go along with Mallroy’s theory--or even that this whole week had been a charade, a set-up Silva had formulated to destroy his career and life. Maybe his windpipe had healed badly from the cyanide and he knew he couldn't be strangled in the way he kept insisting on. It would be just twisted enough for one of Silva's schemes. But in that moment, Bond trusted Silva more than anyone in the room.

At long last, Silva let himself into the office, with Dr. Brand following behind him with a look of shock on her face. His hair was disheveled (and Bond noticed in the light for the first time that he had about an inch and half of dark brown at his roots) and his eyes were red, but he still seemed relieved to see Bond. Paying everyone else in the room no mind, Silva dragged a chair over, placed it in front of him, and sat down in an echo of their first meeting.

“James, I’m so sorry for causing you all this trouble. I was just so sad when I woke up this morning, I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t tell them about you, but I’m not surprised they figured out it was you.” He brought his hands to rest on Bond’s thighs. Bond really wished he could get a better look at the panel’s faces at this point.

“It’s alright,” he told Silva. “It was bound to happen, we should have been more careful. I’m sorry you woke up this morning.” Silva smiled the most genuine smile Bond had ever seen on his face.

Mallory cleared his throat, and Bond and Silva both turned to look at him. “Mr. Silva, since we have clearly established that being in the same room as Mr. Bond does not traumatize or intimidate you, would you mind explaining what has been going on?”

Silva turned back to Bond with his wild grin spreading across his face before rising out of his chair and sauntering over to Mallory. “What has been going on, Mr. Mallory, is that you have kept a man who wants to die alive, and have kept him under the same roof as a man who wants to kill him.” He brought his hands down to rest on Mallory’s shoulders, “And now you are surprised they found each other. Really, you should be more concerned that 007 has failed to kill me for going on a week now. That’s not a good dysfunction for an assassin to have.”

“But what about,” Mallory paused. “The rest of it? If that wasn’t rape, then what...?”

Silva straightened up and addressed the panel, “It was a condemned man’s last request,” as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. He glanced over at Dr. Brand. “And the actualization of my suicidal ideation. That is what you would call it Doctor, no?” He turned around and began strolling away from the panel back towards Bond.

“Meaning what, precisely?” Mallory pressed.

“Meaning that was how I wanted to die, precisely.” He had reached Bond and was now standing behind him, hands on his shoulders. “James swooped in as my Angel of Mercy, so generous in his willingness to kill me how I wanted.”

“But why?” Dr. Brand asked. “Why so elaborate and, er...” she faltered, no doubt because Silva had chosen that moment to move his hands inward and started stroking the sides of Bond’s neck. Perhaps she feared a demonstration.

“James knows why, and that’s all that matters. Something about my theatrics like he was teasing me about the other night.” Bond swatted away the fingers that had trailed up his left cheek and Silva chuckled.

Mallory sighed audibly and ran his fingers through his hair before declaring, “I think we’re done here. It looks like nothing illegal has happened-- well, attempted assisted suicide is technically illegal, but after expecting to have to charge Bond with rape and deadly assault and battery, I just can’t give a damn. Bond, you are still suspended for a week, just--because I told you months ago you weren’t to strangle him in his bed.” Silva threw his head back and let out a single sharp laugh. Mallory cleared his throat. “I don’t want to see you until a week from Monday. In person or on security footage. You are never to have contact with Mr. Silva again. And--someone take Mr. Silva back up to his chamber.”

“M, I really think I should take Mr. Silva back with me,” Dr. Brand protested.

Mallory glanced at her with incredulity then turned to Silva, “Mr. Silva, do you want to go back to the psychiatric department with Dr. Brand?”

“Not if she’s going to try to get me to talk,” Silva replied. “But it is much better decorated than my room.”

Dr. Brand looked affronted, and Silva flashed her his manic shark smile. One of Silva’s security officers came in just then and took him away, and he threw one last gaze back at Bond that Bond didn’t want to describe as longing but couldn’t find another word for it.

Mallory then said, “Moneypenny, I know you’ve been listening in, so please come escort Mr. Bond from the building.” She walked in a few moments later, cheeks flushed in embarrassment, and Bond sympathized.

As they stepped out of the office together, he murmured to her, “Not. One. Word.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she agreed.

After a few more moments of silence as they walked down the corridor, he said conspiratorially, “Would you tell on me if I grabbed something before I left?”

~~~

Eve waved goodbye at the exit of HQ as Bond hauled Q bodily from the building. He had been forbidden from speaking, an order he was not doing a very good job of following, whining about his shoulder hurting and whimpering every time he tripped over his own feet. Bond ignored it, dragging him into the hole-in-the-wall café across the street. He plopped Q down in the most secluded table in the place and went to the counter to order a coffee and an Earl Grey.  
  
While setting the tea in front of Q, Q asked, “Why am I in trouble? When I told you to go to him--” Bond bent over him so that he could get a good look at what Q now termed his “killface” and shut up.  
  
Bond sat down and after a deep gulp of black-as-night coffee, he leaned across the table and demanded in a low voice, “I figure you were listening in on my so-called hearing, so we’ll skip that. What I want to know is what you already knew beforehand.”  
  
Q held his hands up in surrender. “I really didn’t know anything beyond what I had told you from him. And really, you should have told me first so I could have fixed the security cameras.”  
  
“When did he get security cameras in the first place? I thought he wasn’t supposed to have anything more complex than a shaver in his room.”  
  
“They’re in the antechamber, obviously, so he can’t get to them. Mallory figured that if we told him the were there, it would defeat the purpose of, well, trying to catch him doing, er, anything wrong.” Q blushed and looked down into his tea.  
  
Bond dragged his hand down his face and sighed, “Bloody hell.” He stewed silently for a few moments before asking, “What do you mean about fixing the security cameras?”

“Are you serious? It’s not going to make a difference if you’re going to be spraying your DNA everywhere--” Q clammed up at the second appearance of the killface and took a long sip of his tea.

“I just need some time to talk to him. Like an hour, say tonight at two a.m.,” Bond murmured. “Can you do that?”  
  
“Sure, I just need to loop in about an hour of footage from before. Night is good, so I can grab the most recent hour and any noticeable motion will be minimal. I can do it from home even.”  
  
“Good. Go tell him that so he doesn’t do anything erratic tonight.” Q nodded, then Bond added, “And don’t watch.”  
  
“I thought you said there’d be no DNA-spraying,” he replied without even thinking.  
  
Bond fixed his killface on Q again and pointed at the door. “Get the fuck out.”  
  
Q beat a hasty retreat.

~~~

Bond made the familiar journey into Silva’s room again, making his entrance at 2:05 a.m., giving Q some leeway to be sure. The minute he stepped in, Silva sat up on his bed, where Bond thought he had been genuinely sleeping.  
  
“James, you made it!” Silva exclaimed, giving Bond the same smile as in Mallory’s office. “When Geoffrey told me you were going to try anyway, I couldn’t believe it. But I have it all figured out. I managed to get a spare set of sheets, so when we’re done, you just have to clean me off--there’s a sink with paper towels in the corner with my toilet, see--dress me, change the sheets--you’ll have to take the old ones with you, hope you don’t mind-- and just tuck me in just like you found me there.” He began unzipping his jumpsuit and added, “I know you can do it tonight, I have faith in you.”  
  
“Tiago,” Bond said. Silva stopped undressing and looked back up at Bond, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. Bond walked over to the bed and sat down next to him. “I’m not here to kill you.”  
  
“But you have to, now’s our last chance,” he begged, tears forming in his eyes. “They’re going to escalate my suicide watch again, they’re talking about moving me--the only reason I’m still here now is because they can’t decide between another MI6 facility or a high security mental hospital. They think they can fix me James, but I can’t be fixed. I need to die, why can’t they see that? You have to do it, you have to do it now!”  
  
“Tiago,” Bond said again, wiping Silva’s tears away. “I can’t kill you anymore.”  
  
Silva gave a strangled cry and grabbed Bond’s shoulders. “But I need to die, James, you’re the only one who understands that! What do you mean you can't? I killed Her and I need to be punished! And no one else wants to punish me-- they want to fix me, but they can’t bring Her back. They want me to teach them what I know and they don’t care how poisoned it all is. They’re starting to give me work again and don’t realize it will all end up the same way! The wrong people will get hurt because of me! You want to punish me, James, I know you do!  You have to!” Silva buried his face into Bond’s shoulder and sobbed. "Why did I live? She should have survived, not me." He wrapped his arms around Bond’s waist and pulled Bond towards him in an iron embrace, reaching up and digging his nails into Bond’s shoulders, immobilizing him.  
  
Realizing he couldn’t easily pull away. Bond leaned forwards then gently rolled them both to lie down on the bed. Silva pulled him closer once they were both fully prone and began kissing his neck. Bond began, “I’m not going to kill you. Don’t get me wrong, I still hate you for killing Her, I think Mallory’s scheme of keeping you here is insane, I don’t trust you and I am almost certain you’ll end up recruiting all of Q-branch for some nefarious plot, and even just having you so close to me right now, every fibre in my body wants to reject you like a bad organ. If that was all I felt I’d still want to kill you." Silva stopped kissing his neck, and he shook as he silently began sobbing.

Bond continued, “But today at my hearing, when you came in, it was the...most alive I’ve felt in months. Not because you were going to exonerate me--I had no idea that you would, or that Mallory would let me off with a slap on the wrist even once he knew the truth. When you walked in, I saw someone I shared dozens of secrets with. I finally fully grasped everything you had said about us being ‘the last two rats,’ and how She had made us. She broke us both, several times in different ways, but we still love Her. The three of us, one unhappy, fucked-up family. I need someone I can compare scars with, and no one else's can match mine the way yours can. If I were to kill you, I’d end up hating myself for it. And that’s the reason I hate you most of all.”

“Damn you,” Silva breathed into his neck. He pushed himself up and bracing himself over Bond he asked, “How are we supposed to compare scars if you’re not allowed to see me again? If they move me?”  
  
Bond raised an eyebrow. “You once programmed your computer to let you out of prison, and I snuck in here and fucked you senseless for a week before anyone caught on. I think you and I together can figure something out.”


	6. Epilogue

On Bond’s first day back to work, the building went into lockdown mode at 2:05 p.m. Raoul Silva was not in his room. While the rest of the staff followed the standard procedures, Mallory went straight for Bond’s office. He burst in and found Bond quietly sitting behind his desk, tapping away at his laptop. Bond looked up and casually said, “I didn’t do it.”  
  
“Right, of course not,” Mallory nodded. “Welcome back, 007.”  
  
“Thank you. Happy hunting,” Bond replied. After Mallory left, closing the door behind him, Bond leaned back in his chair and growled, “Fuuuuuuuuuuuck” looking down at his lap. “Christ, man, how the hell are you doing that?” Silva smiled as best he could with his lips wrapped around Bond’s cock before doing “that” again.  
  
Forty minutes later, while pinned on the surface of Bond’s desk, Silva came undone into Bond’s expertly pumping hand, and in the spasms of his little death throes, Bond groaned and shot his load into Silva’s arse. After disengaging, they cleaned up and put their clothes back to rights (Bond had only dropped his trousers, and while the nature of Silva’s jumpsuit required it to be almost completely removed, his white cotton undershirt had been left on). Bond collapsed into his chair and Silva sat on edge of the desk.  
  
“James, can I ask favour?” Silva asked, grinning wickedly, “Only it’s terribly against the rules.”  
  
Bond chuckled. “Oh no, we can’t have that. What do you want?”  
  
“I just want to send an e-mail.” Bond raised an eyebrow at Silva. That was terribly against the rules, and his immediate experience hardly convinced him that Silva still wasn’t game for some anarchy when the mood took him. “Oh come now, you can watch me,” Silva replied to Bond’s silent concerns. “I promise it’s nothing to be concerned about.”  
  
“Fine,” Bond replied, and Silva settled himself in Bond’s lap and pulling the chair closer to the laptop. Bond could see that he had the MI6 internal e-mail client open, and he was addressing an e-mail to Q:

> _Don’t forget our lesson at 3. Reports of its cancellation have been exaggerated. -RS_

After hitting ‘Send’, Silva stood up and stretched. “Well, I’ve got to run. Terribly important appointment to get to.” He turned to face Bond. “Don’t hate me, darling, you know I’d rather stay.” He bent over and pecked Bond on the lips before climbing onto the desk and pulling himself into the ceiling vent. 

The vent cover was replaced and Bond had just swept the plaster and dust off the desk when Q burst into the room. He looked around, dejected to find Bond alone. Regaining his swagger, he said to Bond, “I just got the strangest e-mail from your address.”

“Oh really?” Bond replied, unsuccessful at keeping the amusement out of his voice.”Don’t you have an appointment to get to?”

“Yes. I’d ask if you had any messages, but I suspect he’s gotten his fill for the day.”

“You have no idea.”

“Ugh, how am I supposed to keep that image out of my head the next hour?”

“Just try really hard not to think about it.”

“I hate you,” Q whined as he walked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...


End file.
